They moved away, their voices fading, and Gwen did not hear what else was said. She inhaled, then exhaled slowly through tight lips. After all the effort she’d made with Verity, she felt hurt. As she was walking back and forth thinking about it, Laurence appeared at her door.
‘You look lovely, Gwen.’
She smiled, pleased he had noticed. ‘I heard you talking to Verity, while you were in the garden.’
Laurence didn’t answer.
‘She doesn’t like me. I’d hoped she might, after all this time.’
He sighed. ‘She’s a complicated girl. I think she has tried her best.’
‘Who was the man she fell in love with?’
‘Her fiancé, do you mean?’
‘No, I’m talking of the one who didn’t reciprocate.’
His brow furrowed. ‘It was Savi Ravasinghe.’
Gwen stared at the floor and kept her face rigid to conceal her shock. In the long silence that followed, the past came rushing back, and with it the image of her silk knickers on the floor.
‘Did he encourage Verity?’ she eventually asked.
Laurence shrugged but his body tensed as if there was something he couldn’t bring himself to say. ‘He met her when he painted Caroline’s portrait.’
‘Where is the picture, Laurence? I’ve never seen it.’
‘I keep it in my study.’
When he looked at her, she saw deep pain in his eyes, but also anger. Why? Was he angry with her?
‘I would like to see it. Have we got time before our walk?’
He nodded, but didn’t speak as they walked along the corridor.
‘Is it a good likeness?’ she asked.
Again, he didn’t answer, and when he unlocked the door his hands were shaking.
Once inside, she scanned the room. ‘I didn’t realize it was on display. It wasn’t there last time I came in here.’
‘I’ve taken it down a couple of times but always end up hanging it again. Do you mind?’
Gwen wasn’t sure what she felt but shook her head and studied the painting. Caroline was portrayed wearing a red sari enhanced with silver and gold thread, and with a pattern of birds and leaves embroidered all along the section that fell from her shoulder. Ravasinghe had brought out Caroline’s beauty in a way that hadn’t been so apparent in the photograph Gwen had seen, but something fragile and sad in her face affected Gwen deeply.
‘It’s real silver, the thread,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it down. Should have stored it away long ago. Don’t know why I haven’t.’
‘Did she always wear a sari?’
‘No.’
‘For a minute there it seemed as if you were angry.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’
He turned away. Maybe he was angry with himself, she thought, or perhaps he still felt guilty that he hadn’t had Caroline hospitalized? She knew very well how guilt could chew up your insides, how it could stick to you, invisibly at first, but gradually fester until it took on a life of its own. She was saddened by the feeling that Laurence might never fully recover from his first wife’s tragic death.
20
Time passed by and, despite moments of intense anxiety when she still had to fight the panic, Gwen felt stronger every day. Hugh clattered about the place on his new bike and Laurence was cheerful. Gwen read her favourite books, sitting on a bench near the lake, where, listening to birds and the gentle lapping of water, she allowed nature to heal her. Gradually she started to feel like her old self, her worries about the drawing and the guilt about her broken bargain with God beginning to fade.
She knew she was properly better when she ate her first cooked breakfast in months. Sausages, slightly burnt the way she liked them, one fried egg, two rashers of lean bacon, a slice of fried bread, and all of it washed down by two cups of tea.
Where the months had gone, she really couldn’t say, but now it was October, and at last she was feeling bright. She glanced out of the window and down towards the lake where a fresh wind was chopping up the surface of the water. A walk with Hugh might be just the thing. She called Spew and Bobbins, and then found Hugh sitting on his rocking horse and shouting ‘giddyup’.
‘Darling, do you want to come for a walk with Mummy?’
‘Can Wilf come too?’
‘Of course he can. Just wear your wellingtons. It’ll be wet.’
‘Not raining now.’
Gwen pulled a face, and looked up at the sky. During the last few months, the weather had barely registered. ‘Maybe silly old Mummy didn’t notice that the rain had stopped.’
He laughed. ‘Silly old Mummy. That’s what Verity says. I’ll bring my kite.’
Gwen thought of her sister-in-law. There had been no trouble recently. Verity had taken Laurence’s comments on board, and though she was back now, at least she had been gone for a while.
Neither Verity nor McGregor had mentioned the drawings again and since McGregor had banned the use of the bullock cart to bring messages, Naveena had bribed the dhobi to bring them whenever he could. It no longer worked as a warning system, however, as the drawings now arrived erratically, rather than around full moon, and there was no guarantee that the dhobi would keep his mouth shut. But he was a greedy man and she hoped the money he received would be enough of a deterrent.
As Gwen and Hugh reached the lake, the path was still muddy. Gwen had not tied back her hair and enjoyed the way it flew in the wind as they ambled along and the dogs raced ahead. On the other side of the lake, a band of purple shadows darkened the water. Hugh was still at the age where every tiny speck was of infinite interest. With a determined look that brooked no argument, he picked up and examined each pebble or leaf that caught his eye, then filled his pockets, and hers, with treasures that ten minutes later would be forgotten.
Grateful for a return to her life after a long absence, she watched her son and her heart burst with love for his smile, his little stocky legs, his unruly hair and his infectious giggles. The happy sound of chattering birds filled the air and, when she lifted her face to feel the warmth of the sun, she felt at peace; yet, despite that, one thing still nagged at her.
They went on a bit further, but Hugh cried when the kite got tangled up and would not fly.
‘What’s the matter with it, Mummy? Can you fix it?’
‘I think Daddy will probably be able to fix it, sweetheart.’
‘But I want to fly it now.’ Livid with anger at his hopes being dashed, he threw it on the ground.
She picked it up. ‘Come on, hold my hand and we’ll sing a song all the way home.’
He grinned. ‘Can Wilf choose?’
She nodded. ‘If you’re sure Wilf knows any songs.’
Hugh jumped up and down with excitement. ‘He does. He does. He does.’
‘Well?’
‘He’s singing, Mummy. He’s singing “Baa Baa Black Sheep”.’
She laughed and glanced back to see Laurence coming down the steps. ‘Of course. Silly old Mummy.’
‘There you are,’ Laurence called out. ‘Better get back in.’
‘We went for a walk by the lake.’
‘You look absolutely wonderful. It has put the roses back.’
‘Have I got roses too, Daddy?’
Laurence laughed.
‘I do feel better,’ she said. ‘And we both have roses.’
There was just one thing Gwen still needed to do to put her mind completely at rest, so the next morning she prepared herself, telling Naveena she wanted the stretch of a good long walk. At the back of her mind she knew the old ayah would object if she knew the real reason.
Naveena glanced at the sky. ‘It will be raining soon, Lady.’
‘I’ll take an umbrella.’
Once out of the house she followed the sweep of the road. Breathing deeply and swinging her arms, she was able to think more clearly when she walked. When the silver sheet of the lake could no longer be seen, she rea
ched the part of the road where ferns laden with water almost brushed the ground. The smell of cooking fires from the labour lines still drifted across, and with it the distant sound of barking dogs. An expectant stillness hung in the air; the calm before the storm, she thought as she glanced at the approaching lines of black clouds divided by slivers of light.
She had always considered herself a good person, one who’d been brought up to know right from wrong. Since the birth of the twins her self-belief had been severely shaken, although her love for Hugh and Laurence was right; that much she did know. But what about Liyoni? Gwen didn’t doubt that the little girl was safe, now that the missing drawing had arrived, but what if she was not loved?
A memory came back of the day Liyoni was born and, as other images returned to her, the more sure she felt that going to the village was the right thing to do. She hated to think that Liyoni, cut off from her real mother, might be growing up with an inexplicable sense of abandonment. Shivering with the anticipation of seeing her daughter again, she imagined taking Liyoni home with her, but as the rain started up and grew steadily louder, her heart began to pound. Laurence might not be as offended by the colour of Liyoni’s skin as the rest of the European set, but he would be deeply hurt by her infidelity.
All along the road she searched for the turning, but now rainwater was dripping from the trees and into her eyes, making it difficult to see ahead. Eventually she found a track to the left, marked by a large lichen-coated rock, and there she stopped to collect her breath before continuing. She managed to break a path through the overhanging branches with her umbrella, but after just twenty or thirty yards the wall of trees became too dense. When the spokes of the umbrella caught in one of the trees, she tore at it and her hair knotted in the branches. Panting with the effort of freeing herself, it tangled even more and she panicked until, almost in tears, she pulled herself free. The trail had petered out and now the umbrella was ruined too.
She picked the leaves and twigs from her hair and, as the rain became heavier, she made her way back to the road, straining to see through the thick white mist that had descended. Dark shapes seemed to appear and disappear at the edges of the road and she held out a hand to ward them off, suddenly feeling afraid. A bird screeched, there was a loud crash and that was followed by the crackle of snapping branches.
She lifted her heavy wet hair from her neck and shook the water off. Now that she had started, she didn’t want to stop. She wanted to see her daughter again: wanted to see what she looked like, wanted to look in her eyes and see her smile. She wanted to hold her hand, kiss her cheek again and swing her round as she did Hugh. For a few moments she allowed herself to feel the emotions she had trained herself to deny. Instinctively she’d always known that if she permitted herself to feel love for her daughter she would not be able to cope with her absence. Now, as she allowed herself to want her daughter, she let in a little of that need, and it hurt so much that she doubled up with the pain of it. When she straightened up, she wiped her eyes, took a long slow breath and looked about her. She’d never find the village in this. Dizzy from the rush of blood to her head, she sat on a rock in the pouring rain with her arms wrapped round herself, and made believe it was Liyoni she was hugging.
She stayed until she was completely soaked through, then she choked back a sob and let her little girl go. With her chest tight and hardly able to breathe, she stood. For several minutes she did not move but watched the huge drops of rain as they bounced off the road, then, leaving her daughter behind again, she began the long uphill walk as the road slowly climbed towards home.
Laurence had not seen her arriving home drenched and swollen-eyed. In spite of her fatigue, she had lit candles and run a bath. Though the electricity supply from their own generator was unreliable during a storm, there had been hot water and she’d soaked in the scented bath so that the pain and tiredness might dissolve away. Then she’d taken two headache powders and splashed her face with ice-cold water.
Now as they both settled down to read after dinner, the oil lamps were lit. She sniffed their faintly smoky smell, hoping the gentle peace of the evening might stitch up the wound in her heart.
‘Why did you go for such a long walk in the rain?’ Laurence asked as he poured them both a brandy.
She shivered, fearing she had caught a chill. ‘I just needed fresh air. I had an umbrella.’
He fetched the blanket from the other sofa, wrapped it round her and rubbed the back of her neck. ‘You’ve only just got better. We don’t want you ill again, my darling. We need you too much.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
The truth was the soaking had left her feeling drained, though more from emotion than the weather. However, she needed to appear her normal self so decided to read for a while then write to her mother. She’d been disappointed when, due to her father’s shortness of breath, her parents had cancelled their long-awaited trip to Ceylon.
‘It’s muggy, isn’t it,’ she said, ‘now that the rain has stopped?’
‘It will rain again soon.’
He went back to sit in his favourite armchair and picked up his paper.
Thoughts of Liyoni still threatened to spill over, but she swallowed back the distress and fought against them. She made herself comfortable on the sofa, not the one with the leopard skin. Gwen never felt at ease leaning against a dead animal. With a cushion behind her head, she put up her feet on one of the tapestry footstools and determined to concentrate on her book, but still the words swam.
‘What are you reading?’ he asked as he reached for his brandy.
‘It’s an Agatha Christie. The Mystery of the Blue Train. It only came out last year, so I’m quite lucky to get it. I do love Agatha Christie. It’s so vivid, and so exciting, you really think you’re there.’
‘A little unrealistic though.’
‘True, but I like to lose myself in a story. And I can’t bear those heavy tomes you keep in the library. Apart from the poetry, of course.’
He grinned, raised his brows and blew her a kiss. ‘Glad we have something else in common then.’
‘Darling!’
She closed her eyes but the need to confess all to Laurence was still there. She imagined throwing herself at his feet and begging for mercy, like one of the heroines in the novels she so liked to read. But no, that was ludicrous. Her heart raced frantically and she put a hand to her breast as she rehearsed the words silently. She only had to open her mouth and speak.
‘All right?’ he said, noticing.
She nodded, aching not to have to keep Liyoni secret from him any longer. In that one night at Nuwara Eliya she had exchanged the love of her life for a drunken moment, but the price had been too high for too long, and she felt she could not go on. She tried the words again. Laurence, I gave birth to another man’s child; a child I have hidden away. No. That sounded terrible, but what better way was there to say it?
When the doorbell rang, he raised his brows and she put down her book.
‘Are we expecting someone?’
She shook her head, hiding the relief that washed through her.
‘Who could it be at this hour?’
‘I’ve no idea. Maybe when Verity left, she didn’t take her key.’
He frowned. ‘The door isn’t locked. If it were Verity, she’d come straight in.’
They heard the butler’s shuffling footsteps in the hall, and then a woman’s voice. A woman with an American accent. That was followed by the sound of high heels briskly tapping on the parquet floor, becoming louder as she walked along the corridor.
‘Christina?’ Gwen said in a low voice.
‘I don’t know any other Americans, do you?’
‘What can she –?’
The door opened and Christina came in. She wore her usual black, but was devoid of all jewellery. She looked as if she’d dressed in a hurry and had simply forgotten to put it on. While Gwen was coping with her misgivings at seeing the woman, Laurence had gone over and, with a
smile on his face, was offering her a highball. She didn’t smile back.
‘No. Large whisky. Neat.’
Gwen watched as Christina sat on a straight-backed chair at the card table. Her hair, usually so elaborately styled, was hanging loose over her shoulders, and Gwen could see from the colour of the roots that it was dyed. Something about that made her look vulnerable.
Christina pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from her bag. She put the cigarette into a silver holder, but when she attempted to light it, her hand shook so much she couldn’t manage it. Laurence stepped in, took the lighter from her and reached over to offer the flame. She drew in a long breath, the cigarette lit, then she leant her head back and exhaled, sending rings of smoke to the ceiling.
‘Is something wrong?’ Laurence asked her with a concerned look, and touched her bare arm. Not a caress, not that, but gentle.
Christina lowered her head and didn’t reply. Gwen noticed how the woman’s face, stripped of make-up, was incredibly pale, and maybe because of that she appeared to be at least ten years older. Not a woman in her thirties after all. Not so glamorous either. But Christina looked so strained that the thought didn’t comfort Gwen.
‘You had better sit down, Laurence.’
Gwen and Laurence exchanged puzzled looks.
‘Very well,’ he said and pulled up a chair.
‘You too, Gwen.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Gwen won’t want to be bothered, if it’s about business. She has been ill.’
Christina looked up at Gwen. ‘I heard. Are you recovered now?’
‘Thank you, yes,’ she said, smarting at the thought that Laurence might want to exclude her. ‘But I will stay, if you don’t mind, Laurence.’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m afraid there is no easy way to say this.’ Christina paused and with a strangled sound almost choked on her words as she tried to speak. They waited for her to compose herself.
‘Is it Verity? Has something happened to her?’ Laurence asked, looking alarmed.
Christina shook her head, but didn’t raise her eyes. ‘No, nothing like that.’
‘What then?’
The Tea Planter’s Wife Page 22
